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This is the letter I write you everyday and then erase. It's the letter where I apologize for dying.

By the time you get this I will already be back home, sleeping next to God. It's not because I loved Him more than you, it's because the heart of the world is broken, and I keep cutting myself on the pieces.

Never think you didn't save me. Even when God's Repo Men came between. You renovated my heartbreak.

I would sing you to sleep every night if I could. A world-wide lullaby, under the spell of which, everyone would dream the same thing. Some people would die of regret without waking. Some people who went to bed hungry would wake up fed. I'd call the song, 'What Could Have Been.'

Up here, the sky is dark and staring. An endless, lidless eye, seeing everything.

You can't be evicted from Paradise.

This is the part of the letter where I decide to try harder to stay.

This is the part of the day where my heart scissors like an amoeba between the slide and the coverslip. The part of the day where I choose to mistake it all for pangs of love. So that I can be here when you get home.

This is the part of letter where I tell you about the cure.

This is the part of the letter where I tell you what I would put on the menu, if I was cooking a Feast in your honor. Only two things ever stay the same.

This is the part of the day when I go back through and erase this letter to you.

Or at least it used to be.

Now it's the part of the letter where I learn the same thing, anew, Everyday.

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